#IrishWriters
How justly art when Cælia aids s… Contends her ms nature to excell The slender needles in that hand c… Such forms as hers but of a better… The silk is placd the winding trac…
When thy beauty appears In its graces and airs All bright as an angel new dropp’d… At distance I gaze and am awed by… So strangely you dazzle my eye!
a Nations praise thine ample glory… or let the Nation find its praise…
Blessed Light of saints on high Who fill the mansions of the sky, Sure defence, whose mercy still Preserves thy subjects here from i… O my Jesus! make me know
Giddy wth fond ambition, mad wth p… Apostate angells once ev’n heavn d… Avenging heavn its hottest bolts p… And hell and thunder provd their s… Yet foolish man by no example won,
As Celia with her Sparrow playd She took a glass unseen Her mouth she filld & while he billd She spirts ye liquor in
Upon a time, and in a place, With Pan Apollo playd, Grave Midas sat to Judge ye case, And Pan ye Victour made. The Rustick to his Fauns withdrew…
As Pope who gathers mony to trans… With Gay the Shepheard Writer me… Says Pope, your Ecclogues wont co… For Phillips to reprieve him Tons… Indeed the story may be true, says…
Mourn widdowd Iland, Mourn, your… Mourn ye unhappy flocks your Shea… Around your grief in dolefull stra… & Lett ym in sad Eccho’s dy a… As sympathising wth their masters…
Here Great Erasmus resteth all of… That Death can touch or Monument… Thy Hope and Virtue soard ye loft… Round ye wide world thy Fame &… Those meet rewards above and these…
As Bacchus ranging at his leisure… (Io Bacchus! king of pleasure) Charm’d the wide world with drink… And all his thousand airy fancies; Alas! he quite forgot the while
Upon a Bed of humble clay In all her Garments loose A Prostitute my Mother lay To ev’ry Comer’s use. ‘Till one Gallant in heat of love
Grant heav’n that I may chuse my… If you design me worldly Happines… Tis not Honour thats but air Glory has but fancied light Fame as oft speak’s false as right
In PhÅbus Wit (as Ovid said) Enchanting Beauty woo’d; In Daphne Beauty coily fled, While vainly Wit pursu’d. But when you trace what Ovid writ…
Come hither, Boy, we’ll hunt to D… The Book-Worm, ravening Beast of… Produc’d by Parent Earth, at odds (As Fame reports it) with the God… Him frantick Hunger wildly drives